I want more
by hematichigh
Summary: Smutty, sex-positive Delena one-shots. All pieces treat sex as a healthy activity that can contribute to a positive relationship with oneself and one's partner. Adult content (some chapters more adult than others).
1. The Blood That United Them

_A deleted scene from TVD 4.04 (head canon, of course). NSFW._

_She tastes so good._ Better than any blood bag, better than Matt. The pulsing of the blonde's fresh blood through Elena's veins set her every nerve into overdrive; Elena closed her eyes to sink into the deliciousness of giving in, the caving to a hunger that penetrated her very being.

"Ok, that's enough. Elena, come on. Stop."

His voice floated somewhere just outside her consciousness, a faint murmur that mingled with the sounds of boisterous drinking games and shouting fraternity idiots. The bedroom, which Damon had compelled a half-naked couple to vacate minutes earlier, provided shelter from the revelry, but Elena took no notice of her surroundings. Her whole world was the size of two puncture wounds from which the blonde's blood was flowing.

"That's _enough._"

Suddenly she was gulping at air, and she panted as the pale wrist was gently pulled away from her. Damon was wrong—it wasn't enough, not by a long shot. High on blood, Elena was overcome with the urge to drain the sorority girl slumped on the beer-soaked floor, to feel the life gushing out in ugly spurts; in death, Elena wanted nothing more than to have life inside her, someone else's life, if that was all she could get. Who was Damon to get in her way?

"How dare you?" she screamed. In her fury she shoved him against the wall, fangs bared. "I WANT MORE."

He looked at her with a sadness deeper than grief, deeper than loss. He looked into her bloodshot eyes, vampiric and deadly and hollow, and said, "I know."

She slowly backed away, still breathing hard, holding his gaze fast to hers. She saw something in his eyes that startled her, though she'd always known it was there; the pain, the longing, the eternal loneliness. He wanted more too; more from her, more from himself. He wanted more for her than a vampire existence, and the tragedy of it crushed him…

And it just made her angrier.

"HEY." Again she shoved his shoulders against the shitty peeling wallpaper, the tackiest pattern she'd ever seen. Paisley, really? "Don't you dare feel sorry for me. I'm sick of feeling like every day is my funeral, and you're not helping."

Damon turned away and sunk his fangs slowly into his wrist, pressing the blood that spilled out to the blonde's mouth. Her still frame was motionless on the floor. "Sorry to derail this temper tantrum, but if I don't heal her it'll be her funeral."

"Damon, I WANT HER TO DIE. What don't you understand? I want to KILL HER."

Satisfied that the blonde would pull through, Damon stood up and grabbed Elena's wrists, gently but with authority, and walked her backwards towards the hall where the draw of the blood wouldn't be so overwhelming. She fought him, struggling to escape his grasp. Finally out of patience, he slammed her back against the hallway wall, her arms pinned above her head.

"Listen to me," he said roughly. "You don't want to kill her. She doesn't need to die just so you can feel alive."

She squirmed futilely against him, filled with rage at his reason. He wasn't going to let her go until she calmed down, but she couldn't stop the waves of fury that kept her struggling violently. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out shrieks of impotent anger, and then through the darkness his voice, low and broken, spoke softly into her ear.

"Elena."

His hot breath sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, and in spite of herself she fell quiet, her outburst quelled. She was suddenly aware of how close they were, his body holding her against the wall, his hands still pinning hers into a posture of surrender.

"Elena, I'm so sorry."

He whispered into her ear, devastated at her pain, trying to bring her back to herself, to her humanity. To his relief he felt her relax slowly under him, and he started to pull away. But he hesitated; despite himself, he relished her nearness, the fire of her body against his, and…did he imagine it?…it felt like her hips had come forward ever so slightly into his.

"She really was delicious." Elena breathed the words quietly into the small space left between them.

He looked up to meet her eyes, and the deadened fury behind them had been replaced with a playful intensity that caught him off guard. He suddenly noticed the blood staining her face, her chin, her cheek; her feed had been messy, and though he hadn't really noticed it before, enticing notes of young blonde blood started to mingle with Elena's scent. He traced the blood's path with his eyes, and she watched him look with a heady glee.

"Go ahead," Elena murmured. His voice had brought her back to herself, but the rush of the feed still pulsed through her. She wasn't ready to abandon the transcendent ecstasy of giving in.

"Taste her."

She moved into him, watching the dizzying effect her nearness and the blood had on his self-control. She didn't need to tell him twice—the intoxicating smell banished his hesitation and he leaned in hungrily.

He paused an inch from her mouth, breathing her breath, smelling the blood trickling down her face. Slowly, he dragged his tongue across her cheek, tasting what she'd tasted, the blood that was now coursing through her re-animated veins.

Elena took a slow breath, savoring his wetness, his delicate tongue, his rough hold on her. Suddenly she wanted him, all of him, closer, closer…

"Do you want more?" It was an invitation, not a question. The words tumbled out of Elena's mouth, breathy and imperative, as if she had planned to say them all along.

Damon paused, drew back his head, but never released her from his hold.

"Are you sure?"

Slowly, with the most halting tenderness, she brought her lips up toward his.

"Yes," she mouthed, but he knew her words before she spoke them. She grazed his bottom lip with hers, barely touching, sending a jolt of electricity through his trembling frame. He heard his breath catch. Her proposal had shaken him; he was so used to feeling in control, and with one touch she had wrested it from him.

She leaned back against the wall, met his gaze, and he knew she meant it, knew she wanted him to taste the blood in her veins, to share the life that minutes earlier she had stolen from an unwitting blonde. Then she closed her eyes and raised her head slightly, and all he could see was the blood pulsing through her neck, imbued with her very essence, a piece of her soul…

His hands slipped from their grip on her wrists as he slowly brushed her hair away, tangled strands on pale skin. He often dreamed of her—her smell, the feel of her skin against his—but never had he dared to dream about bloodsharing. He almost didn't want to touch her for fear of doing something wrong, something she'd regret. He couldn't be another one of her regrets. But he watched her chest rise and fall with waiting breath, shallow and ragged, and hesitatingly, he moved closer to her pale neck. And suddenly he was overcome with the smell of her skin, and the blood right beneath it, and his fangs emerged despite himself, and he closed the distance between them.

She felt his fangs, sharp and cold, gently touch her neck, not piercing yet, just grazing her soft skin, and she let out a whimper. "Damon, I can't wait, please…." But he would take his time if it killed them both. He caressed the curve of her collarbone, memorizing the valley behind it. His fingertips gently stroked her shoulder, the back of her neck, making her shiver with anticipation. Then it was too much to take, and he sunk his teeth into her, tearing through lovely flesh, and suddenly the noise of drunk revelers melted away; all he could hear was the blood gushing and Elena's small gasps. The blonde's blood, now Elena's, poured hot into his mouth, surrounding his tongue and streaming down his chin. Hungrily, desperately, he took from her the life borrowed from another; he felt so alive in her veins, pulling the still-fresh wetness inside him, and he pushed roughly against her. He grabbed her hair, that soft, lovely hair, and tugged down, giving him access to her gushing carotid, and he let his other hand wander to her waist, to her hips, to her thigh…

The blood rushed out of every corner of her shuddering form, its flow interrupted by the force of Damon's feed. She felt him pulling from every inch of her, ravenously consuming her, inside and out. She wanted to give him more; she was on fire with his closeness, dizzy with it. Every piece of her, this body that used to be human, felt once more like she belonged in it—still foreign, but no longer hostile. She let out a low moan, a dark hallelujah, and stroked his hair, pulling him into her. His fingertips barely touched her bare thigh, but the achingly gentle contact sent the strongest shocks of pleasure through her, and as she felt him come alive against her she dug her fingers into his back, greedily tearing at his shirt. Clothes suddenly seemed like such a laughable stab at modesty, and she ripped through his like so much tissue paper.

She tore at him furiously, clawing at his back, tearing fresh wounds as the old ones healed. She breathed deep and fast as his touch circled her thigh, his fangs still deep inside her. As he pulled more and more out of her, she felt him drag her up, rising waves of joy pounding through her. From the farthest reaches of herself she came alive; her veins vibrated with elation, her nerves firing spastically, and as his fingers slowly moved between her legs she felt him pull her to the edge. Poised for the fall, she gasped deeply; then with his final touch she careened over it, flying wildly in darkness as she spasmed against him. He felt her come violently, and he let himself come with her; they clutched at each other in ecstatic desperation as the blood that united them pulsed uncontrollably, and together they reveled in the savage life coursing through them both.

They stood slumped against the wall, breathing heavily of the same air, as the feeling slowly dissipated. He reached up tenderly to stroke her cheek, and felt wetness; a cold panic gripped him and he jerked his head back to see tears streaming down her face. Horror and dread overtook him.

"No, Elena…You did nothing wrong, it'll be okay. I promise, we'll make it all okay—"

But her sudden salty kiss halted his words. The blood on his lips mixed with the tears on hers as she tried to tell him everything she couldn't say, tried to communicate the overwhelming relief that glowed within her. For the first time since her death, she felt like her body was her own, like its impulses and desires were really hers. By giving in, she had given herself permission to start healing, to know herself again, to start coming to terms with her new life. For the first time she felt like she might be able to live it. Bitter self-hatred was momentarily replaced with overwhelming gratitude; with his fangs and his fingers Damon had brought her vampire self into momentary alignment with her humanity, and she could never thank him enough.

She threw her arms around his neck as she buried her face in it. Deep sobs shook her as he held her up, confused but relieved, and he heard her choke out the only two words she could muster:

"I know."


	2. Exposed

"And what would you like, miss?"

The waiter smiles pleasantly at Elena as she puts tremendous effort into maintaining her composure. Damon's fingers derail her speech as he lightly, cruelly strokes the top of her knee under the table, his perfectly groomed nails sending unhinging distraction radiating from her kneecap inwards. She's barely able to point randomly at the menu.

"Sorry miss, is that the…side of green beans?"

She flushes red, and Damon smirks. The others in their party start to turn their heads quizzically, and Damon takes pity on her for a second, retreating.

"Sorry," she says, "I mean the ravi-oh…" Damon gets immense satisfaction from watching her falter; he's decided she doesn't deserve a break and travels further towards her center, the pads of his fingertips barely grazing the inside of her upper thigh, and she can't get the words out. She swallows hard and reaches for her water with an apologetic half-smile. Damon can barely contain his self-satisfaction as a cocky grin breaks out over his face. _They can't know_, Elena thinks desperately, _I have to cover it…_

"The ravioli?" The waiter mercifully finishes her sentence, jotting down her order on his pad. "Very good, thank you."

"Thanks," Elena replies quickly, eager to finish the exchange. Her gulp of water doesn't all make it into her mouth, and she fumbles for a napkin to catch the few icy drops that have escaped down her chest. As the server moves to her left to take Caroline's order, Elena takes the opportunity to silently ask Damon what the fuck he thinks he's doing. They're _in public._ His stare is easy to catch—it's already squarely on her, roving hungrily, caressing the curves under her dress where the spill has darkened it, and she's sure he'll get them discovered. Sexy he may be, but subtle he's not.

She berates him with her eyes: _What the fuck are you thinking? Caroline's birthday dinner is hardly the time to let everyone know what's going on between us, and you're not playing fair._ He knows that every nerve above her knees has a direct line to her clit, and every touch is agonizing torture; how can she make small talk when her wetness is getting harder to ignore by the second?

He holds her scolding gaze and his eyes smile mischievously at her, unfazed by her halfhearted protests. Then, in a mock show of surrender, he bows his head and gives an obliging shrug, but he's enjoying teasing her too much to let her off so easily. He looks up from under thick eyelashes to watch her face as he slowly tilts his fingers, letting his fingernails trail up an inch, stroking up and down against the line of her panties. Her forced scowl fades muscle by muscle as his touch arrests her; she loses momentary control of her face, her forehead relaxing as her lips part slightly to let air sharply in. Her legs ease apart despite herself and she sinks ever so slightly in her chair, and only then does he let his hand retreat along the length of her leg and come to rest in his own lap. Her body helplessly follows the fingers that leave her a trembling mess, tilting towards him as he turns to strike up a conversation with the diner to his right. It happens to be April, whose very existence Elena suddenly resents. It's hard to care who's looking when she wants to come so badly, and Elena wishes Damon would reach back over and fuck her with his fingers until she can't remember her own name, or his. It's all she can do not to reach down and finish herself off where she sits.

"Elena? Are…you ok?" Matt, bless his heart, is the only one to notice Elena's breathlessness; Caroline and Tyler are wrapped up in flirty conversation, and Bonnie's been flirting with the bartender for the last ten minutes. For once, Matty's attentiveness is a curse.

"I'm fine, Matt, just feeling a little—tired." Damon snorts into his bourbon; either he heard her inexpert lie, or April just said something particularly amusing.

"Are you sure you're ok? You look sort of sweaty."

With a playful wink that only Elena can see, Damon turns to weigh in.

"Yes, Elena," he says with a glint in his eye and a deeply furrowed brow. An irrepressible note of facetiousness creeps into his display of faux concern. "You look…sweaty." He relishes the word, clearly gloating.

She glares at him, frustrated and furious and _so fucking wet_, but the look she gets in return does nothing to alleviate her need. Those stupid, paralyzing eyes. She can't look away from them, and she can't subdue her libido, and the result is eyefucking so brazen she's given up all hope of escaping the notice of the whole table.

"Actually…" she manages to keep her wits about her long enough to answer Matt. "Uh, I am a little dizzy, now that you mention it. Do you think you could ask the waiter for a wet towel?" Her performance isn't Oscar-worthy, but Matt jumps up to find a waiter, and Elena is as free as she can be from prying eyes, considering she's _in public_.

As their companions chat merrily around them, Damon selfishly keeps his hands to himself while stimulating Elena with his eyes; they wander along her most intimate places in hungry succession, and she can almost see what he's doing to her in his mind. His eyes fall to her neckline, and she feels the ghost of his lower lip on her breast; they wander to her lap, and she feels the paralyzing illusion of his tongue massaging her clit, pressing blissful agony into every sensitive millimeter. She tries to think of ways she can get off within the next ten seconds without anyone noticing; her mind curses Damon while her body radiates heat towards him. Vengeful, she lets herself keep his perfect face in view as she plays with her hemline, hiking it up slowly until the lace of her lingerie is visible, and she watches his eyes lock on her hips with a newly urgent ferocity; his expression shifts from playful to ravenous. Good. He started it—he might as well experience this hell, as long as she has to.

Elena takes the towel that Matt runs back to offer her, but sets it directly on the table and turns to Caroline to make her excuses. She can't wait one more second.

"Care, I'm so sorry," she says. "I think I'm going to head home. I really don't feel well—it must have been something I ate."

"But…our food hasn't even come yet," Caroline replies, her face twisting into a confused pout.

"Right," Elena says, kicking herself mentally. "Well, um…it must be something else then. Happy birthday. Sorry again."

She stands up and almost knocks her chair over, but Damon catches it and says,

"I'll take you home. You don't look so good."

_Yeah right. She looks better than anything he's ever seen._

They practically sprint to the exit, ignoring the bewildered stares that follow them. Right then, neither of them gives a fuck about Caroline's birthday.

* * *

She playfully bats away his wandering hands as they race up the stairs to her bedroom. She shuts the door and he goes for her zipper, but she shoves him off her in a gesture of flirty indignation, a firm hand holding him at bay.

"God, Damon," she says. "That was _not. Fair."_

"Now Elena," he purrs, coming close to her again, "I'm pretty sure you loved it. I'm a vampire, remember? We have su_perb_ powers of deduction." He traps her against her bedroom door, fencing her in with his limbs, and buries his face in her hair to whisper,

"I could smell you wanting me."

She closes her eyes and stores his proximity in her sense memory; she concentrates in turn on the warmth hovering above her skin, the roughness of the denim that she finds between his legs, the notes of bourbon and desire that she traps in her lungs as she inhales.

"What you…_smelled…_was me wanting to _come_," Elena clarifies, jokingly knocking him down a peg. Her concentration rests with her right hand, which is caressing him through his jeans. If they ever fit him properly they no longer do, and she relishes the growing firmness against her. When she speaks again her tone has shifted and she sounds almost timid when she says, soft and quiet into the slope of his jaw: "And now I'm going to."

He lets out a sigh of anticipation and swells against her as his hand slips down her torso, but she pulls her hand away from his jeans to halt his explorations as she follows up her statement with another:

"…and you're going to watch."

He groans in protest as she pushes him onto the window seat. He tries to stand back up, but she firmly returns him to the cushions.

"_Watch,"_ she repeats, and takes several steps backward.

Her eyes locked on Damon's face, Elena lets her hand find her zipper, easing it down and exposing her right side. The fabric gapes open and he breaks their eye contact as his gaze drops; he can see an inch of her bra band, and he wants her to take it off more than he's ever wanted anything in his life. She doesn't yet, though; she takes a beat to take in the obviousness of his desire for her, and it gets her wetter than all hell to see him drooling over her. Her finger trails along her pronounced collarbone, and she gives herself goosebumbs as she slides the strap of her dress down over her shoulder, then goes for the other; she pauses again, and waits for his eyes to flit back up from her neckline to her eyes so she can give him a small smile before pushing the dress down to her waist.

She knows everywhere he wants to touch, and she does it for him, using his stare as a guide. First her hair, her incredible hair; she spreads her fingers through it, letting it tickle the nerves on her nearly-bare back. He almost feels its softness through her hands. Strands catch in her hooked fingers as she lets his eyes direct them to her neck; she strokes gently up and down the small vertical valley next to her throat, closing her eyes and letting her head tilt back. It blows her mind how certain places translate immediately to her clit when stroked; she feels the touch between her legs long before she even comes close. She'll get there eventually, but fuck if she isn't going to take her time. She wants Damon on the brink of orgasm by the time she gets there, and she's going to bring them both there together.

"Take off your bra," Damon asks quietly, reverently, almost shy; he knows she's in charge, and has no idea if she's open to his humble input. She's getting off on her power over him, and decides to indulge his request; she's ready to be free of the bra anyway. Her hand finds its clasp and she shrugs it off, letting it fall to the floor.

Damon lets out a small involuntary moan, and reaches for the button of his pants, but he stops himself to look guiltily at her for permission. She answers by sliding her thumb into the wetness of her mouth, then letting it hover over the center of her breast. Very delicately, she barely lets it touch; she swallows visibly as wetness pools in her core, and the slightest of nods allows him to finish undoing his pants. He can't touch her, but he can touch himself.

"Wait for me," she orders softly, and he'll try; he mirrors the delicate gentleness of her caresses, teasing himself the way she's teasing herself, letting the tension build. He uses one finger to trail along his stiff length, and suddenly he's not sure how long he can wait. God, the way she's breathing, the way her hand is moving down her abdomen…_oh my god, she's almost to her pussy_…

"What should I do now?" She asks coyly as her hand falls to rest at her belly button, a feigned innocence tinting her voice. She knows exactly what he wants her to do.

"Keep going," he says. He can't be more specific. He's sure he used to know how to breathe, but he's completely forgotten.

She slides off her underwear, her wetness spotting it, and sinks down into a seated position on her bed. She leans against her headboard and lets her legs fall apart, and he has to take his hand away from himself to keep from coming. Deliberately, slowly, she starts to touch herself once more, her fingers finding the same path his had traced at the restaurant as she travels down the tilt of her inner thigh. He watches her approach and lets out an impatient groan as she reaches the inner juncture of her hip and poises her hand above her center.

Then, finally, she can't wait any more; she runs her finger along the perimeter of herself, coating it in her arousal, and with her index and middle finger she parts her lips to show him the swelling; his mouth gapes open as her chest rises and falls unevenly. Her eyes stay open, memorizing his response; it exceeds her expectations. He's watching her move around her clit with shellshocked disbelief, and he's incredibly stiff. He lets out a low "oh," and forgets his face; he's utterly lost in the arousal he can see so clearly between her smooth thighs. The cool air playing over Elena's most sensitive skin reminds her how exposed she is. She feels incredibly safe with him, though.

She reaches for her nightstand and opens the top drawer. As she pulls out her vibrator and brings it down between her legs, Damon allows himself to resume his slow strokes; he knows she's close—can see that she's close, _fuck_—and he's weighed down with the intensity of his need to come. She better hurry.

Elena switches on the vibrator and takes a few seconds to let the sound trigger her sense memory, anticipation coursing through her. Then she lays it next to her clit, and instantly her breath becomes deep audible gasps; she lets out an "mmmmmf" as her whole body starts to rise up and down in response. Damon can't take his eyes off her face, her perfect face so taken over by ecstasy.

It's the hottest thing he's ever seen.

The smooth instrument relentlessly massages her clit, and she moves it up and down with deep concentration. She hasn't forgotten Damon's presence, but she's retreated into a personal haze of incapacitating pleasure. Half-words fall out of her mouth, gibberish, and she moves her hips rhythmically.

"T….tell me how it feels," Damon pleads, his voice low.

It's a tall order. She's so close, so incredibly close.

"Oh my god, Damon," she breathes brokenly. "It feels…so…" she moves the object down and feels the vibrations tickle the threshold, then thrusts quickly inside and moans, rocking forward to maximize the friction deep inside her. "Oh, it feels so…" she tries to breathe but just moans… "So…_good_…" Her face tells him as much as her words; her mouth gapes open in ecstasy, and spasms of unhinged pleasure contort her features with each thrust. "Shit, fuck," she breathes, "_fuck._ Damon, I…mmnh…I'm close."

He's been close for what feels like an eternity.

"Come, Elena. Let me see you come." He strokes himself without restraint now, and he knows he won't be able to wait; the shaking goddess in front of him has completely demolished his self-control, and he speaks her name over and over, a dark prayer. "Elena…"

She returns the vibrator to her clit, and feels a rising wave of culminating pleasure start from the outer edges of her being. "Now," she says in an instructive whimper, and then forgets about Damon for a second; she screws her eyelids together and lets broken syllables fall unheeded from her mouth, and she almost sobs with the incredible release. Her voice is animal as the climax vibrates through her arms, her thighs, behind her belly button, deep inside her. Intimate muscles clench repeatedly as she lets go of all control, pleasure taking over as she contorts with the power of her orgasm.

She feels incredibly, unbelievably alive.

* * *

Slumping over on her side, her hand relaxes and drops the vibrator to the floor as she pulls thick air laced with sex into her lungs. Utterly spent, she lies in her own glow for a minute, then lets her eyes flutter open to invite Damon to lie in it with her. She finds Damon in a similar state, eyes closed, his head leaning back sleepily against her window. He hasn't yet had a chance to reconstruct his defenses, and the way he looks right now is just for her: so serene, relaxed, genuine. Almost as exposed as she was just a few minutes ago.

It is achingly, heartbreakingly beautiful to her.

He opens his eyes to see her looking at him, and he gives her an effusive, radiant smile. It smashes her heart to putty and she beckons him to her. The pain of separation is no longer erotic; she wants him so close that she is jealous of the ribs that get to hold his heart.

He walks over and sits down, his eyes resting comfortably on her face. Its beauty, like always, stuns him—more so now than ever, if that's possible.

"Can I touch you now?" he asks. She marvels at the fact that his face uses different muscles when they're alone and he looks at her like that; his whole demeanor is softer, simpler.

She nods against her linens, and he strokes her flushed face. His heart is bursting with joy, and it translates to a goofy grin. He forgets to suppress it, and by the time he sees it reflected on her face it's too late, but he's too spent to care, really. The desire for her to feel the love exploding out of his chest overtakes him, and he lays down next to her, pulling her close enough that she can feel it beating.

They share themselves with each other, bit by bit.

He holds her against him, letting her feel the love he doesn't have to hide, until her breath evens out and she starts to drool on his arm. It's the most beautiful drool he's ever seen, and he doesn't bother to wipe it away before he joins her in sleep.


	3. A Conversation (4x08 headcanon)

He twists her hair in his fingers, fiddling for the sake of fiddling, rearranging it around her features. She has something to say, he can tell.

Until the words form, she tells him with touches. They always talk that way first. It's okay that the words aren't quite there yet, and she relaxes into silence, relieved as always at his patience. He listens to her fingers as their light friction registers on his skin.

Eventually she gives up on poetry. The truth is simple and easy.

"This is a good morning," she says through a smile, hand coming briefly to rest on his chest to finish her sentence:

_And I don't get many of those._

He answers slowly, reverently, repeatedly.

He answers until she's shaking.


	4. Bubbles

He was quiet, but she heard the door creak open anyway—vampire senses and all. She was still getting used to them, but they had their upsides.

"Anyone ever tell you you look good in bubbles?" He sounded happier than she'd ever heard him, the hard edge gone from his trademark one-liners.

She smiled without opening her eyes, muscles spaghetti in the warmth of the water. The luxury of a bath was something she hadn't indulged in for months, maybe years; usually she was too restless for them, stewing and pruning and unable to shut her brain off.

After the night before, though, she wasn't sure she'd ever feel tense again. Nothing like multiple orgasms to put your mind at ease.

"You're a little biased," she answered.

She felt the water slosh and rise as a new body was introduced into the tub, and still she kept her eyes clothes—the physical sensation felt too good to taint with visual stimuli.

"On the contrary. I've never been more objective," he answered, his legs sliding innocently against hers under the surface. He picked her hand up from the side of the tub, tangling it in his, and held it up to his lips. "You're beautiful, Elena."

She opened her eyes to an expression she barely recognized on his face. It could only be described as serene; he looked so much younger than his many years, and she leaned forward to pull it into hers for a kiss. She left a trail of bubbles on his face, in his hair, along his arms, down his chest, and he laughed as she tried to bring the bubbles below the surface. It was a big bathtub, but it wasn't that big, and he scooped her up, bubbles and all, and dripped wantonly on expensive wood floors as they sought a more logistically feasible surface.

He could mop later. They had better things to do.


End file.
